the weakends
by damn expensive eggs
Summary: dear craig, i'm sorry that i stare at you like you're a raw piece of meat. i'm also sorry that you have the personality of one. never truly yours, tweek.


**a/n**: some real self-indulgent bulbshit that i decided to use craig and tweek as my meat puppets for. strictly fictional, tho. strictional. also i decided to stop fuckin around i finally succumbed to using the weakends as a title because i love it so much (i tried to get away with 'looseleaf and liquid fiction' a year ago, which is from the same song). and no apologies for the lack of capitalization! tweek is erratic as shit! also **TRIGGER WARNING** for (short mention of) **SUICIDAL IDEATION**, and a chunk of **MISGENDERING/GENDER DYSPHORIA**. it's been so long since i wrote sp fanfic that i didn't even know what a trans* headcanon was last time i wrote this shit. i don't think i'll ever write cis tweek again. anyway, i hope u enjoy fic bye

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this paragraph starts with a thesis about love. this sentence further elaborates on where i'm going to go with this speculation, and then, after these clauses, there are going to be some examples, perhaps even a hypothetical conversation between two people who don't exist. and then i woo you with my colloquialism and observational comedy. then i start to get a little more personal, and you relate. you feel me. i may drop a name, or a pronoun, and you're gonna love it, it's gonna satisfy your hunger for someone else to weave the words you never thought you would, to think the thoughts you never could, and ooh, look, alliteration and assonance to tickle your literary fancy. the last sentence is a heavy drop, something hits close to home, and if you're lucky, you might actually feel your heart swell and your throat tighten. if you're lucky.

(and here we go.)

love is a disease that everyone catches differently. and they have no problem comparing symptoms, because while there may be similarities, no two cases are identical. two people may be swinging around red solo cups at a party, when suddenly one says, "dude, this is how bad i had it: i'd be staying up all night having these intricate wedding fantasies, and then just masturbate and cry myself to sleep!" and the other one spits the miscellaneous alcohol back into their cup and says, "no way! that happened to me, too!"

in my case, i suppose, i did suffer the usual symptoms: shortness of breath, heightened anxiety, increased heartrate, difficulty focusing, suicidal ideation, total consumption of the brain. treatment did include masturbation and crying, though more the former than the latter (only because some parts of my body are easily wetter than others).

i haven't got the heavy drop closing yet. i'll get back to you on that.

(and now, for something completely different: a letter i'll never send.)

dear craig,

i'm sorry that i stare at you like you're a raw piece of meat. i'm also sorry that you have the personality of one. you don't deserve to be objectified by your own best friend, but you do deserve a kick in the ass. i love you, but you make me sick. and if i use some sort of analogy about you being a drug to me—because you make me happy and poison me simultaneously—kick me in the ass, too. but i think i'm more poisonous than anything you'll ever touch. i made sure you lost all your friends so i'd be all you have left. and you do. i got what i wanted, but you still won't let me hold your hand when we cross a scary street. the barrier of gender was lost a long time ago, too. i don't know who or what you want. i feel like it's Nothing. i can be Nothing if you want. i don't have to be a boy and i don't have to be a girl. i'll be Nothing for you if that's what you want. i'll be Nothing, just like you. just a malfunctional machine. i sure do hope you understand. i sincerely hope you get hurt by something that's not me.

never truly yours,

tweek.

(and now, a conversation that never happened.)

here's what happens: i've got him cornered. i don't know where we are, maybe some grey, murky stairwell in the middle of nowhere. i get to tell him my favorite thing ever, and he'll respond just how i want him to. "i love you," i say, "but you make me sick."

"no," he says. "you love me _and_ i make you sick. there's no need to be negating the love for sickness. the two go hand in hand. you said it yourself."

he'd never even say something like that. that's too many words in one breath. he's got better things to spend his breath on, like hopelessly attempting to freestyle, or slowly reading out road signs as we pass them.

that's the problem with people. they never follow your script.

(and now, some conversations that have happened.)

excuse me for a moment while i remember this. i sometimes forget what it's like to write dialogue that isn't fictional. it's kinda like whenever craig says words, they go to hell and you have to practically give satan an anal probe to take the words back. i call it a satanal probe.

well, the easiest thing to remember about the thing was that we were at the zoo. i don't know if anyone forgets details about zoos. i think you'd remember there being a tiger at the scene.

i don't know why we were at the zoo. and i don't mean that like, i don't know how we ended up there. i know how we did. my mom took us (thanks, mommy). but i can't remember how the desire to go to the zoo fucking blossomed. maybe because i had a zoopon (a zoo coupon) so why pass up the opportunity. other than that, i like zoos, so fuck off.

we were looking at otters, actually. actually otters. they slide around and splash in the water like a bunch of little kids.

i said, "let's read the plaque," or something. i bend down and look at the little blurb. out loud, i mumble, "otters have a very soft underfur which is protected by an outer layer of thicker fur." then i'm like, "kinda like you."

craig huffed. "i'm not that hairy, though."

"i didn't mean literally," i said.

it took him a second. "ohh. ohhhh. i'm soft inside. ohhhh. yeah. that's deep. yeah, okay. i get that."

"i don't think it says it here, but didja know otters hold hands when they sleep in the water so they don't float away from each other?"

"ohh," he said in his deep, monotonous, bullshit voice, "that's cute. i see. you read that on the internet, right, and there's like a picture of otters holding fuckin' hands and there's like a little heart and shit."

"there wasn't a heart, but there was a picture," i said quietly.

"people always trying t' make shit overly cute."

"it is overly cute. can't you appreciate fuckin' otters? i mean, look at them. they look just like you, they even have your whiskers."

he felt his face. "hey, man."

"yeah. they even stuff their faces with nuts just like you." and after i said that, i knew it didn't make any fucking sense.

"otters don't fucking eat nuts, tweek, oh my god. it says right here." he points to the thing. "fuckin' fish. crabs. crayfish. holy shit, frogs? i hate seafood. who the fuck eats frogs. what are they, french?"

"you hate the french."

"fuck the french. fuck the frogs, too."

"what'd they ever do to you?" i asked. no one was around now, everyone had left the exhibit. except me, him, and the otters.

"sacré bleu bleu bleu, blah blagh. ribbit ribbit. fuck. so annoying. are there french frogs? fuck them."

"i don't know," i said. "let's go look at frogs."

"why would i want to look at frogs."

"we're at a zoo! we paid admission!" i exclaimed, thinking i was being reasonable as fuck.

"we used a zoopon. we can do whatever we want."

"and i wanna see frogs." i didn't really wanna see frogs. i just wanted to spite him. frogs aren't that exciting. except for this one frog is the most poisonous goddamn animal on the planet.

we learn that when i finally drag him to the frogs. i read the thing to him. "golden poison frogs, or phyll... phyllis... falala... obates. terribilis." i pause. "wow. terrible's in the name. poor babies." i pick up where i left off. "... are native to colombia, are among the world's most poisonous animals, though they are harmless when kept away from their natural food source..."

"well, that's a fucking rip-off," craig said. "how am i supposed to feel dangerous when i'm inches away from a disabled killing machine? and it's the food that's credible. the food."

"it still looks conniving as shit."

"it reminds me of you," he said quickly.

"whybecauseitspoisonous." pretty sure he didn't hear that. "or are you trying to get back at me for that otter thing."

"no, really, look at it. it's small and yellow." i was waiting for him to say it was cute like me, but he didn't. "it looks like you, that's all. i don't wanna get deep or anything."

"of all the animals," i said.

"well." he shrugged. "n'yeah."

"if you ate me, you would die."

"why would i-?" he alters his voice into a hauntingly poor whisper, "i ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti."

"not me-me, frog-me. if you're an otter and you eat frogs, and you eat one of these fuckers, you'd be dead."

"yeah, well, that's my fault," he said, moving onto another tank of this smelly, darkened hall. he squinted at a lizard. "lizards are cool."

"i'd still feel bad, though. if you ate me and i killed you."

"well, i ate you. we're both dead. that's life." he tapped the glass. "little buddy looks like a dinosaur."

"otters don't even live in colombia, do they?" i asked, not expecting an answer.

"frogs are like that really uncool cousin of lizards. like arnold's creepy cousin from _hey arnold_."

"i don't remember the creepy cousin," i said. "besides, are they even cousins. frogs are amphibians."

"frogs are amphibians!" craig mocked in a distorted falsetto. "if i had a nickel for every time i fuckin heard that about a goddamn frog."

"you might be able to buy yourself some tweezers for your brows," i said.

"hey, man. i didn't ask to wake up at the asscrack of dawn to look at fucking frogs instead of grooming my fine-ass self."

now i'm laughing. goddammit. i hate giving him the satisfaction, because i know he tried to be funny. he laughed a little bit himself too, and it's probably because my laugh is dumb as shit.

he bites his bottom lip with his jagged teeth, and says, "come on, let's do snakes. snakes are better than both these fuckers."

i couldn't disagree. snakes are great. when wrapped up, they look like little hollow turds with heads. i feel really bad when they're behind glass, though. they don't have that much room to slither. i hope that zookeepers take them out sometimes for playtime, but i'm like 98% sure they don't do that.

it reminds me of harry potter, though, and that kinda freaks me out. like, what if the glass does disappear? how would this particular group of people react to a loose snake? it's always the same in movies, too. someone's like, "RUUUUUUN! IT'S A SNAAAAAAAKE!" and the snake's like "what? i just want a friend." but that's not cool. except i'd fucking run too, if a poisonous-ass snake wasn't behind a glass. but does the tank just have to be so small?

"got anything deep to say about snakes?" craig asked, leaning against the glass with his forehead. it's a python. one of those generic-looking ones. what the heck kinda world am i living in where any type of python is "generic."

"no," i said. "it just looks like a designer turd."

craig exhaled through his nose, grinning. "yeah, i guess."

"snakes gotta be master fucking survivors, dude. they have no arms or legs."

"and they just eat bitches whole," he said. "they don't even give a shit."

"snakes don't give a shit."

"snakes don't give a shit!" he repeated.

"you don't give a single shit on this planet, do you?" i asked the snake. it stuck its tongue out at me. i took that as a yes.

(and now, a misadventure in being misgendered.)

he still calls me a girl in front of his parents. she this, she that, me and her. how can i possibly love someone who doesn't respect my identity 100% of the time, i don't know, but it makes me so mad that i can't help but think that pythons would look great around his neck, too. (i'd apologize for saying that but he's not here, so.)

his parents aren't even that conservative. he can do it. i know he can. but he won't. he's definitely avoiding explaining the whole transition thing, but i even gave him permission to explain if i'm not there. this misadventure happened via text, which was my mistake, because i knew he was capable of walking away from the conversation.

i said, "why do you still call me a girl in front of your parents". he said, "idk i dont notice when i do it". i said, "well i noticed and i really want you to remember to call me a boy. please" he said "ok" and i said, "promise?" and he said "yea" and i said, "for real i swear to god" and he said "dude i got it".

this conversation took three hours. if i know him well enough, he wasn't doing anything at the same time that would have slowed down his answers. he's always on his phone. but i mean, props to me for thinking about it that deeply, right? gaps between texts. that's kind of like getting worked up about nothing. i don't even have an analogy, because it's literally fucking Nothing.

(and now, some real things he's said that i like.)

"you're the coolest guy i know." guy. _cool_ guy. it's cooool guuuuy.

in addition, "dude, don't worry. you're practically gonna wipe your ass with that test." suffice to say, i failed the test. but the sentiment was nice while it lasted.

uh, what else. fuck, how could i forget: "bet you never found anything as cool as this in your underwear drawer." it was a dinosaur finger puppet.

also, "the stars are telling me to and who am i to not listen to the fucking stars?" he's not much of a star person, but he was completely convinced that he needed to buy a batch of bananas at that very place, at that very time. they were forty-six cents a batch. the next day, my mom bought a shit ton of bananas, and i asked how much they were. they were seventy-five cents a batch. the sale had fucking ended. the stars and craig were hella in touch. we made banana smoothies. shoutout to the stars.

(and now, a poem.)

i don't know where the fuck to start  
all this bullshit kinda reminds me of a fart  
sometimes i wish craig was dead  
but most of the time i also wish he'd kiss me on the forehead.

but that's stupid as hell  
why did you even let me tell  
you that. this is all your fault  
you stupid disembodied dolt.

dolt and fault don't even rhyme  
but you get the fucking point, don't waste my time  
jesus shit if i had a nickel for every time  
someone rhymed rhyme and time

i'd be as rich as craig with the amphibians.  
why the fuck did i end that line with amphibians  
nothing fucking rhymes with amphibians  
plebeians? lesbians?

anyway, i know i promised at the beginning  
i'd get back to you on that deep ending thing  
but i don't have one okay  
if i'm real with you, i totally forgot it the other day

i mean, i came up with it. it was short  
and sweet and it was so perfect that it made my whole face contort  
but then i went to bed.  
not much else needs to be said.

so i guess my conclusion is that this is your responsibility now  
i'd give you a hint but i don't know how  
here's a mirror. the ending is in yourself. that's it that's the joke  
fuck off


End file.
